Inked
by APerfectGrace
Summary: Inspired by his brother's recent tattoo, Dean heads into the shop to get a little inking of his own. One shot. Destiel.


Dean is outside with Sam fixing the Impala.

He always enjoys these kind of days because Sam's away from the law firm and Dean has a break from his garage and they can just relax with a crate of beers and mullet rock and tinker with Baby and enjoy being brothers.

Sam's talking about Jess's latest story from the hospital when Dean notices this weird colouring on his skin, just under the fabric of his shirt. Concerned, he just doesn't think and he grabs Sam's arm and pulls the sleeve up to see this freaking awesome tattoo… Seriously, the colours and details are just _phenomenal _and it stops Dean in his tracks because it's like Michelangelo used his brother's arm as a canvas.

Curious, Dean spews question after question after question: When and where and how and why and how much and did it hurt and how do you feel? Laughing at his big brother's inquisitiveness, Sam tells him about this brand new tattoo shop that just opened up in town a couple of months ago, that it's really great and everything is sterile and the artwork is seriously first-rate, and that it's so good that the shop has attracted customers from three towns over, and it gets Dean thinking about the tattoo that he always wanted but was admittedly a little too scared to get…

So, the next day (with Sam's instructions and good wishes) he heads down to the high street, hands in his pockets and mind far away, looking for this place but before he can think about it on the corner is this awesome, sleek shop with black brickwork and silver outlay, the kind of shop that just draws you to it, and that's exactly what it does to Dean and his legs are moving towards the front of the shop before he can clock onto what's going on. He reaches the place and peers through the glass – the shop is empty, but there is all this amazing artwork displayed on the window and more so inside, so Dean makes his way to the door and goes in, the bell tinkling and signalling his arrival to the vacant shop.

He takes everything in; everything is brand new and clean and shiny and state of the art. The tattoo designs on the wall quite literally take his breath away because he never knew that people could create such pictures. He walks past phoenixes with fiery feathers and serene mermaids and stark, Celtic patterns and majestic animals and cursive words curled around twinkling stars and beautiful ivy.

He's checking out this particular picture of a fallen angel when the back door suddenly opens and this guy steps into the front of the shop, and Dean accidentally knocks over a million things and inwardly screams because holy fuck holy fuck _holy fuck_ this guy is just the _sex_. He's got this messy dark hair that's just freaking _everywhere_, and the fucking _bluest_ eyes, like Dean is getting lost just looking at them, and he's in dark blue jeans and white converse and a grey shirt, but even more than that the guy has the _hottest_ sleeve winding up his right arm, and it's just gorgeous and beautiful (like him) and just full of all these intricate designs and patterns, and Dean just can't function right now, he's staring at him and just wants to touch him and his arm and look at him and his arm, maybe for all eternity, but he's surrounded by all this crap that he accidentally knocked on the floor and the guy is just looking at him with one eyebrow raised and his hands in his back pockets.

"You alright, there?" the dude says, and Dean inwardly yells again because his voice just _sings_ through every one of Dean's bones, touches every nerve and settles in every cell, imprinting itself in his body forever.

"I… um…" he manages to croak, before he suddenly remembers that he had a dork moment and spilled everything on the floor. "Fuck, hang on…"

And he's pretty sure that he's the new spokesperson for tomato ketchup because his face is just _that_ red, and he's picking up all the stuff he's knocked over when converse cloud his vision, and then he can smell shower gel and watermelon, and then hands are helping him lift stuff and he looks up but _fuck fuck fuck_ he shouldn't have, he really shouldn't have because those blue eyes are _looking right at him_ and he can feel his body stirring in every single way, and the guy has a secret smile on his face, and straightens back up with all the crap that Dean knocked over in his arms.

"I'm so sorry," Dean says contritely, feeling like an idiot.

"It's fine, it happens. Did you want a tattoo?" the guy asks, laughter lacing his voice.

"Yes," Dean says quietly, placing all the stuff back on the counter and re-arranging it, wincing as he feels the flush reach his ears. _Damn it, Winchester…_

"What did you have in mind?"

"Uh, well…" Dean scratches the back of his neck, blushing even more, but now for a completely different reason. "It's kinda stupid, actually."

It's not stupid - it's just really personal. Dean's mother died when he and Sam were very young - she died of cancer, and he's always wanted something to commemorate her.

"I'm sure whatever you have in mind will be fine, Mr… uh…" Now it's the dude's turn to falter.

"Oh, Mr. Winchester. But don't call me that; it's Dean."

The guy's smile widens a fraction, like his name is the punchline of a joke he's never known the answer to. "Pleased to meet you, Dean. I'm Castiel, I'm the owner of the shop."

Castiel… Dean's never heard such a name in his life, it's unique and almost celestial and it's just utterly _perfect_.

Castiel is offering his hand to Dean and he takes it, shaking it, and Dean is well aware that his hand is humming with the feel of Castiel's warm, strong grip against his.

"Well, if you're the owner, you can tell me who's behind all these awesome designs."

Castiel smile jerks up at the corner, and his eyes shine in his direction. "Of course, Dean. They're all mine."

Dean is astounded. "Are you serious? You own the shop _and_ do the artwork? Man, that's awesome!"

Pink tinges the apple of Castiel's cheeks, and Dean thinks that it's the cutest thing in the fucking _world_. If anything, he wants to see it over and over again, because he's sure that the sight of Castiel blushing will never, _ever_ grow old.

He explains that he was referred to him by his brother, and that he's got an idea for a tattoo but he hasn't had the courage to come to a shop before now.

"Like I said, it's a stupid idea though," he says, laughing the awkwardness off.

"Well, I'll be the judge of that." Castiel leans against the counter, one foot crossed over an ankle and his arms crossed over one another. "Why don't you explain it to me?"

Dean rubs his neck again, shoulders hunched. "Okay, well… long story short my mom died when I was kid… and I always wanted something to remember her by, y'know? Nothing cheesy, something unique, memorable, like her, 'cause she was one of a kind. Anyways, it's the day of the funeral, and I'm holding a toy that she bought me the Christmas beforehand, and someone saw me I guess, 'cause they came over and knelt down and told me to watch the sky. I was confused, I was a kid, what did I need to watch the sky for when she was gone? But they told me that if you watch the sky closely, you can see white feathers floating in the air, and that if you see them, it means that someone in Heaven is watching over you. That story just stuck with me, and after that I'd spend hours watching the sky, waiting for a feather to float by."

Castiel is deathly silent, the smile gone from his face, and the look that he's giving Dean is so intense that it's making him squirm.

"Anyway, that's what I want. I want one white feather, just underneath my left collarbone. I, uh, I had this idea since I was thirteen, I just… never got round to it…"

Castiel's face is full of an emotion that Dean can't read, and after a long moment, he says quietly, "I've been tattooing people for eleven years, Dean. That was by far the least stupid idea that I have ever heard. It's very, very unique, and I'd be honoured to put that onto your body."

Dean's ears are red at his comment, and he shuffles awkwardly. "Uh, thanks… So, how does this work?"

The smile returns to Castiel's face, and he pushes himself off the counter and heads over to the till where a small pad of paper and pen are resting.

"You give me your number and I'll draw some sketches up for you. Usually, there's a chargeable fee for the consultations beforehand, but since I'm new to this town I'm offering free sketches until I can build my clientele. When I'm done with your designs, I'll contact you and you can come and check them out, and pick out which one you like."

Dean clears his throat nervously, because Castiel's just asked for his number (okay, okay technically he has to because he's a _client_ now) and he's never been this anxious giving people his number. They're freaking digits, for crying out loud.

Dean grabs the paper and pen and scrawls his name and number down, pauses, and before he can talk himself out of it scribbles something extra down and backs away quickly, smiling like a goon at the ruffled-haired guy with the unbelievable eyes.

"Okay, so uh, I gotta go, but yeah, call me when you're done and I'll uh, come down or whatever… y'know… when you're done… gotta go…. See you around, Cas."

Before Castiel can say anything, Dean's scarpered quicker than The Flash. Confused, he suddenly develops a strange urge and looks down at the pad that has his contact details on it.

—

_Dean Winchester_  
_504 - 2334_

_Maybe when you're done with sketches, you can show me over coffee/dinner?_

_— _

Castiel smiles.


End file.
